


Not Passive but Aggressive

by reserve



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Andrew Shaw is a Good Bro, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Patrick Kane: Failwolf, Praise Kink, Self-Doubt, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Kane is a shitty werewolf; Jonathan Toews loves him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Passive but Aggressive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seducerhymeswithdeduce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducerhymeswithdeduce/gifts).



> This story would not have been possible without [Megan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seducerhymeswithdeduce), who wrote a lot of it with me, and who offered invaluable emotional and creative support during the process. I started this the night of Game Six, so I figured I had to finish it. Much love and thanks to [robokittens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens), and [sunfair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfair) as well. Thank you for indulging me. Go Hawks! 
> 
> This happened for three reasons:
> 
> 1) Patrick Kane spent the Stanley Cup Final looking like a [B movie werewolf](http://i.imgur.com/t2guywz.jpg).  
> 2) [Lea](http://pricesaves.tumblr.com) drew a [thing](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CHj9XXqUsAAKYeD.jpg).  
> 3) Andrew Shaw bit Victor Hedman.

Here's the thing, he's not exactly the best werewolf. Like, _ok_ , Patrick is definitely awesome, and he'll tell you so himself. He's just...not a terribly good _wolf_. 

When he and sisters were turned, Erica was immediately the alpha. It wasn't a question; he didn't even try to assert himself. Their parents hadn't expected to raise a veritable litter, but that's what you get for camping in known werewolf enclaves in Northern Maine. And for leaving your somewhat hapless (but well meaning!!) 11 year old son as the sole babysitter. Even for a few hours. 

"WOLVES!" Patrick had told his parents. "They came to play with us." His curls were matted and his cheeks were flushed; he was maybe a little bit punch drunk from the recent shift in his biology. 

Jackie had burped up a tiny burble of blood and that was when the Kanes realized that all of their kids had been laving their bitemarks. Patrick, too. 

"Fuck," said Donna. 

"Mom! Language!" said her tiny werewolf son. 

They'd gone home. They'd consulted Buffalo's foremost Lycanthropy specialist. Yes, their children were werewolves. Yes, they would have no choice but to turn each month with the full moon. Yes, they would eventually stop popping out fangs and ears in moments of high stress, because it’s all about _control_. So the Kanes registered their kids and got the proper restraints in case things went south during the full moon (because one werewolf kid was bad enough, but four prepubescent wolves was nightmare material), and Patrick and his sisters had each other, so mom and dad actually got off easy. All and all it was a pretty stellar childhood in his opinion, and at the urging of their family counselor, they got to visit their pack in Maine each summer, too. Without their parents. So cool!

One downside is that Patrick is convinced the lycanthropy is what kept him from growing all that much taller than he was at 11. Another is that all of the inadequacies he felt on the ice as a kid seemed magnified when becoming a werewolf didn’t make him a) bigger or b) tougher. He was still himself, and where his sisters were totally stoked on hunting when they chose to turn, he much preferred to curl up with their mom and let her stroke his ears for a while. He didn’t like to go “full-wolf;” he liked the warm draught of children’s formula Wolfsbane that mom gave them each moon when they were little, and when they got older he kept taking it even when his sisters didn’t. He’s kind of homewolf, if you will.

But that's neither here nor there, because even with the whole wolf issue and the whole small issue, and the whole not terribly aggressive issue, he's still living his dream and playing professional hockey. And if once in a while he has to sit out a game because his full moon was too tiring then so be it. He's out to the league because you have to be, but he's not out to the fans. It's not like anyone misses him for one or two days a month on the rare occasion the full moon and a game coincide. Hockey players get hurt all the time, especially delicate ones. Not that he's delicate. 

Patrick's really not delicate. 

His counselor, Mr. Janusz, and his parents, made him promise not to sire anyone until after he was 21, and there was some doubt (which Patrick staunchly ignored) that he would be able to turn anyone at all. Then he was all of 25 and Shawzy basically begged (seriously, and sober too).

Patrick had decided it would be sick if one of his teammates was like him. He wanted a buddy. A chill werewolf bro who would hang out with him during the moon. Sure, there were other werewolves in the NHL, and Patrick went to the occasional NLHL (National Lycanthrope Hockey League) meeting, but those were kind of stupid. Mostly politics. Voting on whether they should get docked pay during the full moon or whatever. Turning Shawzy would mean a werewolf best friend, not just monthly meetings with a bunch of nerds. As luck would have it, Shawzy is super into NLHL meetings. 

Andrew Shaw is a much better wolf than Patrick Kane. 

Patrick's not jealous. He's really not. But Shawzy is never embarrassed. His nickname is the fucking _Mutt_ for crying out loud. Sometimes when he signs autographs he draws a little cartoon wolf. Patrick would _never_ do that. When he was 16, Erica told him he was "a sheep in wolf's clothing" and he almost tore her shin off. With his mouth. They were separated during the full moon for a while after that. 

The problem is, Shawzy _LOVES_ him. And not in a chill, calming "let's crack a few brewskis and listen to DMB together for hours" way. He loves Patrick in a totally aggressive, werewolf-loving way. Shawzy is out on the ice beating the shit out of dudes for him; actually _biting_ them. Full-wolf even when he's not full Wolf.

"Jesus Shawzy, you don't have to protect me all the fucking time," Patrick shouts at him after a rough game against the Flames. 

"He's always protected you," Tazer reminds him as he passes by, super nonchalant. 

Shawzy preens, and says, "it's not _my_ fault you decided to bite me and make me like, your werewolf slave or whatever."

"Screw you too, dude," Patrick says. "It's called _imprinting_."

"Awwww, c'mon." 

Shawzy's expression is totally heartbreaking, because he cares that fucking much about what Patrick thinks. Ridiculous.

"Go whine to Sharpy," Patrick says, dismissive. 

Later he sees Shaw with his head in Sharpy's lap on the plane home. He's getting a good scratch behind the ears and Patrick is so jealous. So full of wolf-self denial that he has to lock himself in the plane bathroom and choke back tears. Because he wants that, he wants to feel comfortable enough with himself to seek out the attention he craves. It would be different if he still lived at home and his mom still took care of him, and it would be different if Shawzy didn't already have someone to spend each full moon with, a fact Patrick hadn't considered when he agreed to make Shawzy a wolf. There's a deep, abiding loneliness to his lycanthropy; and he thinks that maybe, if there were someone else—even a non-wolf—who he could be himself around, then things would be okay, easier, lighter.

That someone wouldn't care if he wasn't like most wolves. 

The absolute worst, though, is when someone (probably Sharpy) actually leaves a rubber dog bone in Shawzy's locker. And Shawzy laughs it off, but after practice it somehow ends up in his mouth and he's absently chewing on it. The saddest part of Patrick, the part of him that is still a little bit afraid of his sisters, says, "oh my god you are such an embarrassment, _dude_ ," and Shawzy jolts, like he's only just realized he's chewing on a fucking dog toy. And then the effortless son of a bitch shrugs and smiles around it. 

"Whatever, it feels good."

Patrick got rid of his _mouth guards_ because the urge to chew at them was so overwhelming. He literally sacrificed his personal safety because werewolves are apparently always teething or something. He still can't keep his mouth off his gloves. 

Shawzy makes it look so easy. 

"What did you expect?" asks Mr. Janusz when Patrick calls him with his fledgling wolf woes. "You had your sisters; Andrew only has you." 

"But I'm a shitty wolf." 

Mr. Janusz laughs and Patrick bristles, has to clamp his teeth down on a little growl. 

"You are a _fine_ wolf, Patrick. All wolves are different."

He hangs up. 

Ok, _sure_. He can embrace the wolf. He has a mullet most of the time doesn't he? He basically looks like a cartoon werewolf during playoffs. It's cold comfort. It's been 14 years and he still has no chill. 

There's a full moon in a few days and Patrick is already annoyed about it. He can feel it coming, itching under his skin, a prickle he can't place. Shawzy is just extra hyper. Talking nonstop, resting his head on any available shoulder and practically begging to be pet. Of course neither of them are the scary kind of Lycanthrope. Shaw is just as desperate as Patrick is, but he's not ashamed and he has a girlfriend who spends the full moon with him. Two things that make a huge fucking difference. 

They all go out for drinks after the last game before the moon (blessedly they have a three day window) and Patrick has four daiquiris (the real kind) and then he can't seem to stop complaining for the life of him. 

"Dealing with the full moon is balls," he says to anyone within earshot. "Nowhere _near_ as cool as in the movies." 

Seabs pats his back and Patrick has to keep from leaning into it. 

"It's like.... It's so dumb?? I become a dog, you know? I mean, I still look mostly like me, but." 

Shawzy howls at him. What a _jerk_. 

"And usually my sisters get to hang out with each other and I'm all alone at my place and..."

"I'll stay with you," says someone from behind him. 

 _Huh_? 

"Huh?" Patrick looks around. 

"I'll stay with you," Jonny repeats. 

"No," Patrick says firmly. "That's a shitty idea." _For about 87,000 reasons._  In the nine years he's been in the NHL the moon has only occurred three times during a road trip, and even though Jonny offered to wait it out with him every time, Patrick still said no. He was already an annoying roommate; Jonny didn't need to see him at his needy worst, and Patrick certainly didn't need to reveal too much of himself and his pretty undeniable crush on Jonny with the weight of the change on him. Patrick bears it alone, he looks forward to moons in the off season with his family, he's fine. 

Shaw leans over to sniff at him and Jonny ruffles his hair. Even Jonny can't resist petting Shaw. Patrick hates everything. 

He gets through it. He always gets through it. He's a 5'10" (5'8"???) professional hockey player. He can get through anything because he is a fucking boss. It still sucks though, and it must show all over his face after the most recent full moon because Jonny corners him in the Ice House parking structure after practice a few weeks later. 

"Kaner," he says, leaning against the side of Patrick's Hummer and really Patrick should have smelled him there. 

"Tazer." 

"You're a mess." 

Patrick wraps his arms protectively around his midsection.  

"I'm fine."

"No, you're really not. What the hell happens when you turn?"

"Fuckin' nothing."

"Bullshit. Why's it so hard on you? Does it hurt?"

"No."

Jonny gives him an imploring look. Even in the dim concrete building his dark eyes do that freaky thing, all pupil, where Patrick is convinced Jonny can see directly into his soul. Frankly, Jonny is scarier than some of the meanest werewolves Patrick has met.  

_God damnit._

"But?" Jonny prompts. 

Patrick stares down at his currently hairless hands, and frowns. "But the worst is that it's _lonely_. It kind of makes me want to be, like, a pet or something? But there’s no one who….shit. Ok, like, being a werewolf is chill I guess. It's just…." 

"Yeah?" 

"It's just _hard_ sometimes." 

"Listen," Jonny says, all Captain, "I know lycanthropy is a burden, but you're not a bad wolf. It doesn’t affect your game at all. You do ok."  

"It's not that." Patrick shakes his head. "I just. I like the dog stuff more? Than the wild stuff?" 

"You turned the Mutt," Jonny points out.  

"He begged." Patrick shrugs. "And like, he was there on a good Wolfsbane night. You know that shit makes me all touchy feely." 

"So?"

"It's fucking embarrassing, man. I've got no control."

"It can't be as bad as all that."

Patrick snorts and opens the driver's side door to his car. He hangs his legs out over the side and Jonny crowds even closer. Persistent asshole. "You ever been around a werewolf on a full moon?" 

"I had a cousin who used to spend his cycle in our garage sometimes if his parents were away." 

"Not the same. You weren't in there with him."

"I don't care," Jonny insists. "I _know_ you said no when I asked you last month, and every other time before that, but you're not going to be alone for your next moon cycle. It's fucking you up, and it's fucking up the guys to see you fucked up. Think of the rookies, Kaner."

Patrick resists the urge to scoff. He looks great. Maybe a little frayed around the edges, but great. Jonny isn't finished though. 

"Either the team hires a professional to wait it out with you or you get me. Actually, fuck that. I'm not leaving you in some stranger's hands. We'll hang out during the next moon, and I'll watch over you." Jonny manages to look a little sheepish when he adds, "if you want." 

“Did you not just hear me, man? I have literally no control. You do not want to deal with me like that.”

“How about you let me decide what I do or don't want to deal with.” 

“I could hurt you,” Patrick tries, a last resort. He can feel himself breaking. That's kind of Jonny's gift: the ability to tear down anyone's resolve. 

"Not worried about you hurting me, Peeksy.” 

Patrick holds back a frustrated growl. 

“Besides, you have the standard cuffs, right? The ones they give out when you register?" 

"Yeah," Patrick allows. 

"So if shit gets real. I'll. You know." 

Patrick's stomach drops a little. He's not about to tell Jonny what he's been using those cuffs for outside their "standard" purpose. 

"So we good?" 

"I guess," Patrick says begrudgingly. There's pretty much no way to stop Jonny once he's got his mind set on something, and Patrick would really like to get home and have a post-practice snack. He's famished. 

Jonny pulls out his cellphone and Patrick watches him tap on the moon cycle app, the same one his mom uses. He had no idea Jonny kept track. Jonny jabs at his screen. 

"I'll come by after practice on the 23rd.There's no game that night. What should I bring?"

"Just yourself. And, um. Snacks maybe? Beer in case you get bored."

Jonny gives him a soft look. "I won't get bored."

"Okaaaaay." 

So they're doing this. Great. 

The days leading up to the 23rd seem to drag on forever. They have a few spectacular wins at home: one against the Preds and the other against the Aces, the new expansion team in Vegas. Patrick is feeling tip-top even with the full moon approaching. He’s almost able to forget that he’s a wolf for a bit. It doesn’t last. By the 19th he can feel the shift starting: rippling out from somewhere deep inside his chest, the biological imperative to hunt, to stalk, to change. That’s his cue to get everything ready. He’s been a wolf on his own pretty much since Juniors, he knows how to deal. 

First: the Wolfsbane. He doesn’t always take it, but if he’s going to have a guest then it only seems polite to keep his transformation to a minimum. At least Jonny won’t have to worry about him taking off to hunt raccoons or something. The alchemy shop is up in Edgewater and he calls ahead to have that shit delivered under a false name. Seriously, the fewer people who know about him the better. The next step is snacks, and the butcher is used to his monthly orders. 

“Hey Patrick, another team BBQ?” Paul greets him when he calls.  

“Steaks this time,” Patrick says. “Really bloody, ok? Nothing dry-aged.” 

“Didn’t like those?” 

“Nah, man, they were great. No accounting for taste when it comes to the team though.” 

Paul laughs. _Phew_. 

“Can you have them delivered in a few days? The 22nd?”

“Anything for you, Pat. Score one for us, you hear?” 

Patrick hangs up. Ok, two big ones checked right off the old wolf list. 

Frankly the next part is his favorite part. Back when they were kids, his mom had a whole room tricked out for him and his sisters to wolf-out in. There were loads of blankets and pillows and a big TV, and a fridge stuffed to the gills with all the raw meat they could possibly want. It was basically the sickest blanket fort ever, and Patrick loved it. He missed it the entire time he was away from home in Detroit, he missed it in Canada, and he missed it when he moved out and got his own place. His mom, though, is the best and she sent along all his favorite blankets when he got settled at Trump Tower. 

“You kept all this?” Patrick had said, totally awed. 

“Of _course_ , honey. I knew you’d want your own nest someday,” Donna answered. 

And Patrick had felt warm and loved all over. 

He keeps all of the blankets in the giant hall closet by the entryway, and he shoves the coffee table out of the way before lugging them into the living room. It takes two trips, but eventually he has a pretty respectable blanket nest set up in front of the television. He’s not proud, but curling up and watching episodes of _Jersey Shore_ on Netflix has gotten him through some pretty horrible changes. Like the one after his wrist surgery when he nearly ate his bandages off.  

One day before the moon he tries a final time to get Jonny to give up. It’s not like Patrick really needs anyone. He can handle it. But there’s this niggling warmth in his belly when he thinks about Jonny being with him when he’s all snuggled up, high as a kite on wolf suppressant, and dozing through most of the moon. He can’t help but imagine that it could be, well, nice to have someone around if that someone wanted to scratch behind his ears, or under his chin. Fuck, he’s so gone on the idea that it makes him feel downright stupid. _Still…_..  

“Last chance to back out,” he tells Jonny after practice. It’s the 22nd, and he has to get home for his deliveries. No one expects him at the rink tomorrow. 

Jonny shakes his head, and his mouth turns down into that comical frown of his. "I already told you, I'm not worried about you hurting me."

" _I’m_ worried about me hurting you. And also, I'm worried about." He swipes a hand through his overlong hair. "I'm worried about basically slobbering all over you. Like the worst dog."  

“You already slobber all over me.” Jonny smirks. 

“Drunk me doesn’t count. That’s different. This will be….worse. This will be slobbering I can't really control."

Jonny pulls a face. “I think I can handle a little slobber, really.”  

“Ok, but I’m not responsible for ruining any of your nice things.”  

“That’s why you’ve got those cuffs, right? In case things get out of control?”  

"Yeah," Patrick breathes out and it almost sounds like a whimper. 

“See you tomorrow, Peeks,” Jonny says, and slaps him on the back like they’re going golfing in the morning and not, _well_ , this. 

 _That was a bust_ , thinks Patrick.

The next day he’s completely riled up and bristling at the sound of cars on the street, at doors slamming; even the radio sets him on edge and he _loves_ Drake. There’s a reason he stays home before the moon rises. Patrick takes his Wolfsbane a good five hours in advance of when Jonny intends to show up so that the sedative is in full effect well before the moon, and it’s a good thing too, because when he looks in the mirror at just around noon he can see his fangs coming in, long and sharp and ready to accentuate his lisp (another reason to be alone). His chest already looks hairier than normal. 

“You’re a wolf,” he says to himself in the mirror, claws on his hips, and even his reflection stares back doubtful. 

Jonny gets to his around five, all freshly showered, and he smells so much like _Jonny_ that Patrick can tell when he gets in the elevator on the ground floor. It’s so fucking intense; Jonny’s scent. He’s used to it when he’s not, you know, about to be a wolf, but it’s overwhelming to have Jonny in his space, smelling super nice and carrying a six pack with him like a good houseguest. Patrick feels a sudden inclination to be as prickly as possible.

“Can’t have any beer,” he says, scowling. “Interacts with the Wolfsbane.” 

“Oh.” Jonny looks sheepish. 

“You can drink though, if you want.” Patrick knows it comes off as kind of brooding. But he’s a wolf, that’s totally allowed. 

“How about we watch a movie?”

“Yeah, alright,” Patrick says. “ _The Hangover_?” 

“Fuck yeah.” 

About halfway through, Patrick’s ears get all wolfy which he knows because Jonny bursts out laughing when he sees them. 

“Laugh it up,” Patrick grumbles from the floor where he’s curled up in his blankets. 

“No, no. Dude.” Jonny drops down next to him and reaches out to touch.  

Patrick full on growls, teeth bared and all. “Shit,” he says. 

“They’re really cute,” Jonny says softly, hand back down by his side. “Like, _really_ cute.” 

“Ugh.” 

"This is totally cool, bro."

Patrick gives him a completely baleful look. 

"You're." Jonny cringes. "You're a good boy." 

And if there were ever magic words when he’s like this it would surely be those. His ears even perk up a little, and when Jonny reaches a tentative hand toward him again Patrick straight up gives in and nuzzles his fingers, groans when Jonny’s hand settles atop his head and strokes through the fur on his stupid floppy ears. It all feels so good; like exactly what’s been missing. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jonny,” Patrick says before he can stop himself, and then he’s belly up, his head in Jonny’s lap. And he knows that Jonny can see how much hairier his stomach is when his shirt rides up a little. 

“Yeah?” Jonny says, in that same voice people use when they talk to cute pets. Jesus, Patrick loves this. “You like that?” 

Patrick makes a happy trilling sound instead of speaking at all. Maybe at first Jonny was a little bit put off by him, but if the way he’s rubbing Patrick’s neck and furry shoulders is any indication, then he’s 100% on board with it now. 

“I can’t believe you’ve been doing this alone,” Jonny says.  

“You and me both,” Patrick forces out. It’s hard not to become pretty nonverbal at the height of it all.  

“You hungry, buddy?” Jonny asks after the movie finishes and they’ve sat through all of the outstanding photos during the credits. The moon is well past high. 

“Mmmrrrp,” says Patrick. 

Jonny grins. “Ok, hang tight.” 

Then he’s up and in the fridge, and maybe Patrick whimpers at the loss of contact but he’s so blissed out and high on Wolfsbane and honestly, the whole place is kind of blurry because wolf-vision totally sucks for indoor activities. Jonny comes back with a beer for himself, and half a sandwich, and a heaping plate of sexy looking red meat that Patrick tears into without second guessing himself at all. 

“There you go,” Jonny says, encouraging. “Such a good boy.” 

It’s Patrick’s best full moon ever. But he wouldn’t tell his mom that.

Jonny turns up without asking the following month. Patrick smells him the moment his cab pulls into the Trump rotunda. It’s a good thing he took his Wolfsbane just in case; he was far too hopeful to actually ask if Jonny was coming and risk disappointment.

And Jonny turns up the month after that, too. Everyone notices how much better Patrick is doing. Shawzy slaps him on the back and assumes he’s found himself a girl. 

They have a routine now. 

“Lamb this month?” Jonny calls, poking through Patrick’s fridge. He’s got a beer in one hand, and a large pizza on the counter for when he gets hungry, because Jonathan Toews is in for the long haul. That’s just who he is. 

Patrick sits up and tilts his head at Jonny inquisitively. He feels woozy and cared for and less and less capable of talking when they do this now. It’s a comfort thing. 

“Huh?” 

“You got lamb this month. Did you want me to debone it?” 

“Bro, I’m a wolf. The bones are half the point.” Plus, his fangs make it really hard to talk. He’s pretty much all lisp. 

Jonny makes an idiotic face. “Right. Ha. I keep forgetting about the wolf thing.” 

“You keep playing with my ears,” Patrick points out. "My _wolf_ ears." 

“They’re still  _your_ ears.” 

Even wolf-Patrick has the decency to flush when Jonny's nice to him. 

“C’mere,” he says and wiggles in his blankets. 

Jonny brings back a couple of nice-sized lamb chops and his beer and settles in next to Patrick. He holds up one chop and Patrick happily eats it out of his hand, letting Jonny hold the bone until he’s gotten through the meaty parts. And, like always, Jonny’s got a steady stream of praise for him while he eats, a goofy litany of, “that’s right, there you go buddy, yummy.”It’s a lot to take in, but it sure as hell works on Patrick. He sinks happily against Jonny’s side, gnawing on the remaining bones, and Jonny drinks his beer and keeps one hand in the curls at the base of Patrick’s neck, stroking through them and then up and over, his fingers trailing down each ear in turn, consistent as a metronome, and pure bliss. 

Patrick doesn't realize he’s doing it until Jonny says, “you’re purring,” and brings his fingers around to Patrick’s face like he’s seeking the source of the vibration. Jonny’s hand smells really, _really_ good. Pizza grease? Pepperoni? He’s licking at Jonny’s middle and forefinger before his human brain catches up with his (currently) much stronger wolf brain.

“Whoa there,” Jonny says, jolting. 

Patrick slips his tongue all the way between his still reachable fingers, and maybe he nips a little too roughly at the calloused pads, because Jonny makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a strangled moan, and pulls his hand away. Patrick follows him up with a ridiculously disappointed keening sound that he will deny all culpability for when the moon passes. 

“Hey, hey. It’s ok. Just, no fangs, alright? You can lick my fingers all you want, but no fangs.” 

“ _Thorry_ ,” Patrick says, and rubs his head against Jonny’s shoulder. 

“It’s cool.”

Jonny lifts his fingers back to Patrick’s mouth and Patrick happily goes to town, more content than he can remember being in a long time. Each moon he spends with Jonny is better than the last. Jonny doesn’t even sit on the couch any more once Patrick’s changed; he climbs right into the blanket nest like he belongs there. 

 Jonny sighs and Patrick looks up at him, one eyebrow drawn up. 

 "Ok?” 

“I want. I want to try something,” Jonny says, and runs his fingers over Patrick’s lips and fangs. “Hold still."  

Patrick can't help but cock his head to the side.  

"Please don't rip my head off, " Jonny whispers.

Patrick wants to say “ _never”,_ but it comes out as a low whine instead.  
  
Then Jonny’s hand cups his cheek, scratching just a little at his beard before he tilts Patrick’s chin up and kisses him, lips pressed right against Patrick’s fangs where they jut over his lower lip. Patrick backs the fuck up like he's on fire. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Tazer." Patrick bites down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood. He tries to find resolve in the prickle of pain. He tries to reign himself in, but his breathing sounds loud and feral  in the sudden quiet between them.

"Um."

"I can smell you, dude. You get that close and all I can smell is your skin and your blood. I can hear your heart. I can fucking _feel_ you."

"So?" Jonny eyes him reproachfully. 

"Tazer, you're gonna make me." He feels like he’s choking, panic rising in his chest. He can feel the wolf fighting hard against the Wolfsbane sedative, the fabricated suppressant struggling to keep him docile against the heady scent of so much willing _blood_. 

"Gonna make you what?" Jonny says slowly. 

"Gonna make me fucking _bite_ you, because Christ I wanna taste you so bad." It ends on a growl, barely intelligible, and in a deeper register than Patrick knew he had. 

Jonny's eyes go wide and dark, unblinking. He says, "your irises are _yellow_."

Patrick feels like his veins are burning. 

"You should go," he croaks out, "you should...." It's only snarls after that. It's only teeth gnashing and snarls. Jonny holds his ground for a moment before he's up and backing away towards the door. 

"Kaner," he says, hand on the knob, pleading. "Jesus, I'm so sorry."

“Get out,” Patrick manages, before he’s completely subsumed by lust. 

Jonny goes. 

The next couple of days are awkward, to say the least. Normally they text, normally they get lunch, go jogging...but now, nothing. They don’t have to see each other until morning skate the following Monday, and Patrick’s memory of the whole awful night is hazy. When he came back to himself in the morning he found the remains of three pillows and one of his favorite blankets. His comfy nest was a wreck of tatters and feathers, and he couldn't even remember doing it. He does remember yelling at Jonny, he remembers losing control, he remembers Jonny— _kissing_ him—kissing him as a wolf, which is just beyond Patrick, really. Of all the times Jonny could have chosen to make his affections known, if that’s what they were. One thing is certain, he feels like a grade-A idiot. He’s never been given to bloodlust; even when he’s had a girlfriend around during the moon, he’s never experienced the same raging need to take, and mark, and bite….  

He owes Jonny an apology. Things got weird, he’s pretty sure he made things weird. 

Jonny doesn’t think so. Jonny gives Patrick a lazy salute when he walks into the locker room at the UC looking ragged as hell. 

Patrick tries to shoot him a meaningful look that conveys, “I’m sorry I almost bit you when I was overcome with bloodlust, but also like, regular lust? Because I totally want to hit that? Did you only just notice that I want to hit that?” Jonny smiles lopsidedly at him, and Patrick could swear he just looks relieved that Patrick is willing to make eye contact. Well okay.  

“Kaaaanerrrr!"  

Shawzy is all over him the second he’s got his bag down on the bench. “Sup dawg, how was your moon?” 

“You know,” Patrick says. “The usual.” 

“Really? You look a little worse for wear.” 

Across the room, Patrick sees Jonny look up, and directly at them. And who, exactly, is supposed to have the lycanthropic enhanced hearing in this situation? 

“I’m fine.” Patrick smiles at Shawzy’s concerned pout. “Some moons are rougher than others.” 

“Feel that, bro,” Shawzy says, and offers up his fist for a bump. 

Patrick goes for it, but when Shawzy’s expression doesn’t clear he reaches out and ruffles a hand through his hair.  

“Seriously, I’m good.”  

“Well, if you need anything. You know.”  

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “You bet I do.”  

Shawzy nods very seriously at him.  

“Fuck off,” says Patrick, and that makes Shawzy grin big and pointy before he backs away shooting finger guns.  

Morning skate is completely normal after that. If Jonny is extra concerned with his whereabouts on the ice, or how he’s holding up, it’s not obvious to anyone other than Patrick. And _really_ , Patrick thinks a little bit smugly, a little bit territorially, Jonny is _always_ concerned about him.  

Jonny is waiting by his car again when everyone heads home to nap before their game that night. 

"You made it through," he says appraisingly.  

"Always do." Patrick aims for cocky. 

They stare at each other. Patrick wants to smile. He wants to apologize for almost taking Jonny's hand off, or more honestly, for almost mauling his face with kisses and bites he definitely wouldn't have wanted. And he wants Jonny to know that it wasn't him. Or rather, it _was_ him, because the need to mark Jonny had hit Patrick like a fucking puck to the gut.... But wolf-Patrick isn't a very good host and he couldn't exactly say at the time, "please wait until morning, please kiss me then. Please wait until I'm not the world's worst werewolf." 

"I'm sorry," Jonny says, all rough. 

"What?" Patrick sputters. " _You're_ —" 

"Take the apology, Kaner. Ok?"

Patrick rolls his eyes. Trust Tazer and his overblown sense of personal accountability. "Fine, apology accepted."

"Good, we're napping at mine." 

"You're a fucking weirdo, you know that?" Patrick tells him. 

"Says the hockey playing werewolf." 

"Shaddup." Patrick hits him on the back. 

In the days that follow they fall back into step, easy as it ever was. Jonny doesn't mention the kissing and Patrick doesn't mention the snarling, and they play damn good hockey together throughout the whole month. But as the full moon nears, he keeps catching Jonny casting speculative looks his way. Patrick's not going to push it. Of course Jonny wants to tell him that he'll be on his own this time. Patrick can practically hear him explaining patiently in his dumb presser monotone that clearly this is the best course of action in the face of their last moon together, and Jonny is all about action and appropriate responses. 

And maybe he keeps trying to talk to Patrick in the quiet moments, and maybe Patrick is avoiding those like the plague, but that's not the point. He lives and dies on the ice, his heart beats for hockey, and all of him is sustained by his wins, and pummeled by his losses. He's been told his whole life that he has no sense of self-perseveration. So what if doesn't want to give Jonny the opportunity to take what they've shared officially away from him. So what if he wants to protect himself from the disappointment of this loss, when there are so many others to contend with? So what if he's practicing a little bit of caution with himself for once?

Patrick has a double dose of Wolfsbane delivered, and a couple droughts stocked up at home already, because if he's gonna go it alone he's gonna be high as fuck. Canine cloud nine, _toasted_ , basically Cup-win caliber wasted. Which is exactly what he is when Jonathan fucking Toews shows up at his apartment while he’s already three sheets to the wind and maxing out his credit cards on self-pity. Not that he could really max out his credit cards, because he’s super rich, but he thinks he could give it a good run. God, he sure does like buying stuff. 

Jonny lets himself in, which is just, _so_ Jonny. Guy can’t leave well enough alone, had to show up and probably tell Patrick why he’s not there. Except he is here? Patrick’s brain is all kinds of woozy. 

He can only manage a vague, “hhhnngg?” when Jonny calls his name. 

“Fuck, Kaner,” Jonny says, immediately going from game face to horrified parent face. 

Patrick lolls onto his side on the ground and looks up at Jonny from beneath his lashes. His eyelids are at half-mast at best, and Jonny looks really, really hot from this angle. Patrick could get used to staring up the long line of his tanned legs, even if they are partially covered by camo cargo shorts. In winter. 

“You’re a fashion nightmare,” Patrick says.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jonny spits, instead of addressing the real problem. 

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Patrick repeats, because he's a _wolf_ , that's what’s wrong with him. Can't Jonny see that? Although it doesn't look like Jonny understands him at all because his big, dark eyes are wide and concerned, and his mouth is curved into such an angry frown that it makes Patrick want to laugh, but when he tries it just comes out as a broken little sob. 

Fuck, is he crying? 

“Oh my god, Patrick,” Jonny says, and he drops to his knees only to pull back each of Patrick's eyelids in turn. Which is just rude. 

Patrick snaps his teeth a little helplessly at him, and hunches in on himself, claws clutching his knees, ears flat against his head. 

“Are you drunk?” Jonny’s asking him, but Patrick would rather concentrate on how incredible Jonny smells. Even though there are bitter wafts of anxiety puncturing the otherwise sweet, ripe smell of him, Jonny smells insanely good. Hot, and dark and so damn tempting.

“ _M’not_ drunk," he mutters. 

“Then what are you on?” Jonny asks, eyes darting around the room, looking for the source of Patrick’s discombobulation.  

Jonny feels his forehead, and Patrick shivers all over and presses into his palm, butting against his hand. He has to be dreaming, because Jonny wasn’t coming over, Jonny didn’t want to see him like this again. 

“You came,” Patrick says, with sudden clarity, “you’re _here_.” 

“Yeah, buddy.” Jonny sounds like the words are being punched out of him. “Of course I’m here.” 

And Patrick could swear that he looks just as relieved and overwhelmed as Patrick feels, except when he tries to tell Jonny how happy he is, all he gets is another sob that tapers off into a whine. He didn’t expect that much Wolfsbane to make him feel like he’d been drunk for a week, and he’s been there before.   

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick tries to say, hiccuping through another set of sobs. “I took a lot of. You know. I don’t want to be a werewolf anymore.” 

“Have you eaten?” Jonny asks, thumbs swiping gently across Patrick’s cheeks.

Patrick shakes his head feebly. 

“You idiot.” Jonny’s mouth thins into a line, and he hustles up from the ground and away from Patrick to the fridge. “You didn’t order yourself anything?” 

Patrick can hear him rustling around, pulling open the crisper drawers and slamming them shut. He cringes every time. 

“What is this shit, Kaner? Did you plan to starve through this one? You fucking. I don’t even. You know you matter more....” 

Patrick whimpers, he’s barely listening. Jonny’s here. Jonny came to him and he wiped away Patrick’s tears, and he’s still here. Who’s the luckiest wolf? Who? His whole apartment feels hot and small and like the air is sticking to his fur. His arms are heavy and he’s so _tired_. He’s never been this tired before in his whole life; he could hibernate for 1000 years, curl up in soft pelts with Jonny and never leave his den again, that could be nice. That could be an okay way to go.... 

In the morning, Patrick wakes up in the fetal position. His tongue drags like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth, and his eyes have that burning, feverish feel. Jonny is sitting ramrod straight on his couch and sound asleep.

 _Jonny_. 

Oh no oh no oh no oh no. The previous night is a blur, nearly absent from his memory, but Patrick knows how much Wolfsbane he took, how little he prepared anything else, and he knows Jonny must want to kill him if he’s here and spent the night. Patrick really hopes he didn’t call and beg for him to come. 

He sits up on his knees and walks over to the couch on them. His body aches, always does after the moon, but today it’s a bad ache, not the well-stretched feeling he usually has, especially after a good change like the ones he’s had recently. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, voice all gravel. He gently taps Jonny’s upper thigh. He doesn’t really want to wake him. Patrick would be content to stare at Jonny’s face, tense even in sleep, lashes dark against the purpleish shadows beneath his eyes, for a long, long time, but from the look of the sun, it’s already well past 10AM, and Tazer would have wanted to be at the gym by now.  

Jonny groans, and tightens his arms over his chest. Classic Jonny and his total shit attitude in the morning. 

“Tazer, wake up. It’s late. C'mon Jonny." He taps at Jonny's thigh some more, until Jonny shoves his hand away and cracks one eye open. He scowls. He’s more immediately cognizant than Patrick has ever seen him, and he's glaring hard. Patrick has to resist the urge to rest his head on Jonny’s knee, to whine and ask for forgiveness. He backs off instead, shuffling away, and up onto the other end of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest. His ears are back to normal, but he still feels the instinct to flatten them out and keen. 

Jonny gives him a painful, pitying look, sweeping his eyes from the top of Patrick's head to his toes. He rubs both hands over his face. He smells exhausted and annoyed, like he's on the verge of scolding Patrick into the next week.

"Eat a big breakfast today," he says, carefully measured. "Fuck your meal plan, alright?" 

Patrick nods dumbly. 

"I'm out."

"Wait, I—"

" _No_ ," Jonny says, hard and loud, and he holds up his hand, palm out, a staying motion. 

Patrick jolts and lowers his head, he keeps his eyes down until he hears the door close, and then he starts to cry. 

They go on the road the following day which is just insult to injury. Patrick could really use a window of recovery, but if there's anything in his life that keeps him going it's hockey. He's always been the subject of equal parts glowing praise and vehement criticism; either he's responsible (with Jonny, of course) for bringing hockey back to Chicago, the second name in a beloved dynamic duo, or he's bringing down the Blackhawks with him, and the butt of about 1000 jokes concerning loss of control, which is, well, kind of funny if you take into account how much control he actually has. 

Most werewolves wouldn't be able to keep the wolf under wraps with the pressure of the game bearing down. Even Shawzy’s given into his baser nature out there, and he's the best wolf Patrick knows. But for Patrick, during the cold time crunch of a power play, skating up the center in a breakaway, his hands a blur, the full moon becomes as meaningless as the waning one, and the world feels conquerable, ownable. 

Except now, after another Kaner festival of bad choices, things with Jonny are even weirder. Like, Patrick didn't think they could get any worse, but apparently being a hot werewolf mess all over him wasn't exactly endearing because Jonny won't make eye contact with him, sits with at least three people between them on the bench, and is only really speaking to him when they're on the ice together, which is rare at best. At their next game against the Wild, the Blackhawks get beaten into submission (just embarrassing), but even when they win, Patrick retreats to his lonely hotel room with a heavy heart. It smarts to see Jonny be completely normal with everyone else. He’s a fucking effusive motherfucker on the bench, but it may as well be like Patrick doesn’t exist when he’s nearby. Somehow he’s even managed to avoid celebratory hugs.   

Something’s gotta give. Maybe that’s why things go down the way they do. 

The next moon is rapidly approaching and they’re back on home ice. Patrick feels wrung out, stretched too thin. Every time he’s declined a night out, Saader’s given him a look like he’s personally affronted and Patrick can tell that Sharpy is on the verge of giving him some kind of concerned dad talking-to. He really doesn’t need to be on a receiving end of a concerned dad talking-to. They’re playing the Ducks, and Ryan Kesler is doing his level best to be the biggest asshole on the ice, and not just to Tazer. 

It’s three-four Ducks with about four minutes left in the third, and the Blackhawks land a power play in the offensive zone. Patrick tries to center himself; he tunes out the chanting fans surrounding them, and cracks his knuckles inside his gloves. It’s nice to be on the ice with Shaw, he can feed off of some of his aggression, soak it up, a kind of scent-driven feedback loop. They can do this. The puck drops and Jonny wins the face-off, sends it back to Duncs who’s waiting near the blue line, geared up and ready. Patrick loops behind the Anaheim net as Shaw positions himself in front of goal and starts to make a pest of himself. It’s a power play formation they’ve practiced one hundred times before and Patrick is ready for Jonny to tip him the puck once Duncs shoots it back their way. The puck grazes his stick and he’s keyed in, all caught up in it, when Kesler slams into him, sending Patrick reeling into the boards, leaving his stick behind, and the puck with it. 

For a long moment, Patrick is terrified that he’s broken something. He can’t push himself up because Shawzy and Kesler are basically on top of him, and Shawzy’s gnashing his teeth while Kesler attempts to put him in a headlock. Patrick’s trying desperately to scoot out from beneath them when he hears Shaw growl low and mean. It makes Patrick’s hair stand on end; he can feel it all the way through him, the call to arms, the instinct to surge up and get into it, like a tugging at his belly button. Maybe it’s the proximity of the full moon, or the run of days Jonny has spent ignoring him, but when Kesler says, “you fucking dog,” and it’s directed at Shaw, at _his_ Shawzy, Patrick loses his shit. 

His fangs drop without warning and his vision blurs into a familiar haze that means his irises have gone yellow. Then Patrick is scrabbling to his feet, and throwing the whole of his weight at Ryan Kesler like it counts. There’s a rumbling sound in his ears as he connects with the combined mass of Shawzy and Kesler, which is when Patrick realizes it’s _him_. He’s growling, angry and all wolf. Shawzy whoops cheerfully between throwing punches because that’s just the kind of motherfucker he is. And then it’s over. They’re being pulled apart by refs, and Patrick can barely hear the roaring crowd over the thrumming of his own heart. He finds himself grinning toothily from ear to ear and knocking shoulders with Shawzy as they both land themselves in the penalty box while Jonny swears a blue streak. 

The Ducks win, but Patrick feels a molten rush like nothing he’s felt since childhood, since running through the woods with his sisters and their pack: idiotic, young, and happy. 

It’s only afterwards, when he’s leaving the ice, and about to face the media scrum that it dawns on Patrick that they’ll know, they’ll _all_ know. There’s no way the cameras didn’t catch him smiling like a lunatic with his fangs out for the whole damn world to see. There’s no way Jonny missed it either; as if the loss won’t be frustrating enough for him, trust Patrick to add a whole new level to his annoyance. He’s out of his gear and out of the dressing room before anyone can put a mic in his face. Jonny doesn’t say a word.  

Twenty minutes later he’s stuck in loop traffic and Shawzy texts him.

_Beers? On me._

Obviously he’s not going to say no if Shawzy is buying. 

 _Yeah, alright,_ he types, and waits for an address. 

They end up drinking at The Oasis, some dive way the fuck north of Wrigleyville in Rogers Park. Patrick has his hat pulled down way low, because frankly they’re more likely to be recognized in a blue collar bar off the Red line than they are somewhere closer to the Loop. The Oasis is actually pretty close to Patrick’s alchemist, which makes him think it might be explicitly wolf-friendly. Shaw would know. 

“Oh hey,” he says, when Shawzy drops another set of Bud Lites down on the table and then follows those up with matching whiskey shots. “Do you go to the guy over on Ashland?” 

Shawzy looks at him like he’s nuts. “Yeah man, you intro’d me, remember?” 

Patrick takes a long swig of cold, utterly flavorless beer and shakes his head. “I’m gettin’ old. Getting fucking old.” 

“Nah, but you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack if you don’t chill the fuck out about this wolf shit,” Shawzy says, real casual. 

“So that’s how this is gonna go?” 

“Fuck yeah.” Shawzy holds up his shot expectantly and waits for Patrick to follow suit before clinking their glasses hard together. 

“Listen,” Patrick says after wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, “I’m not… I’m not like you, okay? I’ve already got other shit to deal with, and—”

“Shut _up_ , Kaner,” Shawzy cuts him off. “We’re the same height and we’re right around the same weight. You’ve just got it in your head that you can’t hack it and I don’t get that, bro, because you fucking kill it out there. You made me want to be a werewolf, you know? _You_ , not some, like, weird childhood fantasy. _You_.”

Patrick feels hysterical laughter threatening to burst out of him and takes another sip of beer to tamp it back, which means he nearly snorts beer out his nose. 

“Don’t tell anyone that, alright?” 

“I’d tell _everyone_ that. Lots of people look up to you for your hockey, but I think you’re a pretty cool wolf, too.” 

“I’m a shitty wolf,” Patrick mutters; it’s a well-rehearsed refrain. 

“Tazer doesn’t think so,” Shawzy says airly. 

“What?”

“You left—super slick, btw—before the press got to him. Practically blew you up there, man.” Shawzy makes a crude gesture and Patrick is worried he actually might spit-take. He takes a deep breath.  

“They asked him about me? Are you fucking kidding? This is a nightmare. This is a werewolf nightmare.” 

“Bro, of course they asked about you. One, you peaced the fuck out, which is—you should probably check your phone because I think Q and Kitch both called you like, 15 times. Q is pisssssed.” 

“Yeah alright, but?” 

“Tazer’s not pissed.” 

“Tazer won’t even talk to me.” 

Shawzy busts out a loud “ha!” 

“What?” 

“Well, he _is_ mad at you—about the last moon—but he’s not mad at you about this. He gets it. Your body, your privacy, whatever. Like, no one cares that Sidney Crosby turns into a goose sometimes, right?” 

“I’m not Sidney fucking Crosby,” Patrick says, surly. 

“That’s not the point. He gets it, and he went to bat for you. And I’d be mad at you, too, if I were Tazer. Why the fuck would you take that much Wolfsbane? That shit’s not rad even in small doses.” 

Patrick drops his face into his hands and behind them someone breaks up the diamond on the pool table with a loud crack. 

“He told you?” Patrick says into his palms. 

“He _called_ me. My girl had to talk him through a panic, explain that you’d metabolize it. You scared the shit out of him.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah,” Shawzy says sagely. “Fuck."

Patrick chews on his lower lip, and rubs at the back of neck, abashed. When hasn’t the shit he gets up to come back to bite him in the ass? That’s just the way it goes, he supposes. Shawzy elbows him in the side, his lips tilting up into a little smirk, like he can read Patrick’s mind and fully intends to provide a distraction. 

"Thanks, by the way, for saving me and all," he says.

"Shut the fuck up, you pretty much asked me to help. Not my fault we both speak wolf." 

Shawzy grins before making a high pitched yipping sound at him.

"You're disgusting," Patrick scoffs. "Like, the _grossest_."

"I mean it, though. I'm glad we've got this thing in common."

"Alright rookie, reign it in," says Patrick, feeling undeniably pleased. "I'm glad too."

"Sure thing, old man. Sure thing." 

Patrick knocks into Shawzy companionably and they sit together quietly for a moment, which is pretty much a miracle. 

“I should get…um. I should go. You know, have an early night," Patrick says after a while. 

“Watch the presser. When you get home, ok? You should’ve heard Jonny. It was. It was something else."

Patrick stands and drains his beer in one long go. He adjusts his cap. 

“Seriously,” Shawzy says, “watch it. And maybe apologize, okay? If you want.” He puts his hands behind his head and looks up at Patrick a little bit smugly. “Trust me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, before knocking Shawzy’s hat off by its brim. “Thanks for the drinks.” 

When he gets home, Patrick is too tired to do anything other then crawl into bed and pass out, but he has every intention of watching Jonny step up to the plate for him when he gets the chance. Probably. Maybe. 

He wakes up feeling antsy and out of sorts. Ok, he’s nervous, Patrick can admit that to himself. They have another game on home ice that night and he has a few hours to kill before he’s expected at morning skate. He pops a coffee pod into his Keurig and settles in at the kitchen island where his laptop is set up. He resolutely does not check his e-mail, or his Google alerts. Checking his phone messages was bad enough; and he only listened to the ones from Q. There are at least three from Jonny that he’s probably just going to delete. 

The NHL homepage doesn’t mention anything about the werewolf surprise on the Blackhawks roster, so Patrick surfs to their page and takes one deep breath before clicking on the video of the previous night’s post-game press. Jonny’s face fills up his screen, and Patrick feels warm all over. He’ll never get used to seeing videos of himself and Jonny talking about the game. It’s one thing to watch them play, but seeing Jonny on film, his cheeks flushed, his forehead still dented from his stupid helmet, makes Patrick’s stomach flip. He turns up the volume, snuggles up a little in his oversized sweatshirt, and takes a sip of coffee, then he fast-forwards until Jonny looks like he’s going to murder someone and hits play.  

“Our front office has a strict personal disclosure policy,” Jonny is saying, his bored monotone out in full-force despite the very obvious spite in his expression. “So if you're asking me if Kaner’s a werewolf then you'll have to ask him yourself." 

“Tonight’s incident certainly suggests that he is,” says the reporter who must have asked in the first place. 

"Well,” Jonny says without hesitation, “I can tell you this much: if he were it certainly wouldn't matter to me." 

"He's not exactly what you'd expect from werewolf," offers someone from the Sun who isn’t Mark Lazarus.

Jonny laughs. "Pardon my French, but that's horseshit. Who's to say what anyone's supposed to be like? Werewolf or no?”

“He’s just not—”

Jonny rolls his eyes, makes that annoyed boarding school prefect face he gets when he can’t believe anyone’s got to gall to ask him the stuff they do during pressers. He cuts the guy off. 

“Listen, Patrick Kane is one of the most valuable players on this team. He gets out there and he plays his heart out. Anyone can see that. It wouldn't matter if he's a little different when the full moon rolls around, because he'd still play beautiful hockey. And if you have anything else to say on the topic I’d suggest you take those comments elsewhere."

Patrick's heart nearly stutters to a halt. 

“Because I think I speak for the entire organization when I say I’ve got no time for them.” 

Patrick has to close the NHL.com window after that. And if he maybe tears up a little, and then has to watch some cat videos on YouTube, and listen to some Taylor Swift, who could blame him? There’s a moon in three days and he’s going to ask Jonny to spend it with him. He has a plan, everything is fine. 

Everything is absolutely not fine, Patrick thinks as literally the entire dressing room wolf-whistles at him when he gets in. Shawzy practically hug tackles him to the ground, and Patrick has to bat him off with both hands. 

“There’s our little brawler,” Sharpy says, clapping a hand on Patrick’s shoulder when he finally rights himself. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“It was an impressive display,” adds Seabs. “Like, you were really angry. I think I peed myself a little.” 

“And the fangs are cool,” Teuvo says. 

“You guys are the worst.” Patrick scrunches up his nose. 

“Fuckin’ right we are,” yells Crow from literally out of nowhere. 

 _Woof_. 

Jonny offers him a curt nod. “Kaner,” he says, then “get it together,” to the rest of the guys. Duncs throws a glove at his head. 

Once Patrick is suited up, and everyone’s attention is back on their laces or their sticks or anywhere but on him, he taps into the deep calm he reserves for game 7 OT, and sidles up to Jonny. 

“Tazer, can we talk?” 

“Yeah, gimme sec," Jonny says, eyes somewhere beyond him. 

So Patrick waits, and he fidgets, nervously running his tongue over his lips until he consciously makes himself stop and hold still. Most of the guys have headed out onto the ice when Jonny comes back, and Patrick scrubs a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place as best he can. 

“What’s up?” Jonny crosses his arms over his chest, and leans back against the door that leads out to the ice. 

“Listen, there’s a moon—”

“In three days, yeah.” 

“ _Well_ ,” Patrick says, drawing out the vowel, “I was hoping you might want to come back?” 

“Come back where?” Jonny blinks at him.

“Come back to my place, dummy.” Patrick scowls, his forehead puckering. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Yeah?” He tries not to look too hopeful, but he’s pretty sure he fails, that the way his eyes widen is a dead giveaway. 

“I never stopped,” Jonny says lifting up one shoulder. “So I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” 

“I guess you’re right,” says Patrick, tasting the truth of it. 

“Out on the ice, Kaner,"  Jonny says, firm and maybe the tiniest bit fond, with a nod toward the door. So Patrick puts on his helmet and goes. 

They light it up that night. 

The Sharks lose four to one. Patrick has his first hat trick of the season, and gives a beautiful assist to Saad. He gets the belt, and suddenly, he can breathe again. Not a single member of the press corps says a word to him about the wolf stuff. It's glorious. 

"Get some rest," Jonny tells him when they all part ways that night, some ( _cough_ -Shawzy- _cough_ ) drunker than others. "Big night coming up."

 _Yeah_ , Patrick thinks, _it's gonna be._

He puts a lot of care into getting things ready this time around. It's not like he's got something to prove, but he wants to show Jonny that his last moon was an isolated incident; that he's not really that kind of wolf. 

Patrick’s phone dings just as he’s setting up the living room the night of the full moon. He’s got the table shoved under the window already, and he’s laying out the blowup mattress and his blankets as neatly as he knows how. 

 _See you later_ , reads a text from Jonny. Patrick smiles down at his phone. _Sure thing_ , he sends back, before returning to the task at hand. But Jonny doesn’t stop there; Patrick spends the whole morning fielding texts from him, which is… unusual unless something crazy is going on. Is _he_ something crazy? Patrick wonders briefly. Could Jonny be keeping tabs on him? 

 _Need anything?_ Jonny asks right around 1PM when Patrick is preparing a _very_ low dose of Wolfsbane for himself. Maybe Jonny has ESP. 

 _All good man,_ Patrick types, and adds a  just in case Jonny is worried about him, which he shouldn’t be, but….It feels kind of nice to have someone checking up on him. There have been times, in the past, when he could have used a little supervision. And fuck if the fact that it’s Jonny isn’t getting Patrick kind of hot, because it really, _really_ is. He can’t remember when Jonny’s nitpicky hovering went from being annoying as hell to kind of endearing, but that’s just a testament to how slowly fucked up Patrick’s gotten over him. Which is… less troubling than he’d previously thought, especially now that Jonny has kissed him. Crazily. Astoundingly. 

He’s still thinking about that kiss a few hours later when he catches a whiff of Jonny's distinct scent. Patrick has just enough time to pull up the Netflix menu on his flatscreen, roll his shoulders, and tug his shirt into place, before Jonny lets himself into the apartment (with the key Patrick doesn’t really regret giving him) to find Patrick in the kitchen looking as nonchalant as he can manage. 

“Hey,” he says, tilting his chin down

“Doing ok?” Jonny asks by way of greeting. 

“Yeah. Totally.” 

Jonny comes over to the kitchen island where Patrick is perched on one of the stools and sets down a bottle of sparkling cider. He shrugs, and says, “I thought maybe I’d lay off the beer this time,” and when Patrick just stares at him, Jonny adds, “this way we can share."

Patrick had already stocked the fridge with Jonny’s favorite IPA, but this is cool. He likes this. “I’m pretty sober too,” he admits. “So we’ll be even.” 

“That’s. That’s great, Peeksy.” 

Jonny sounds so sincere that Patrick has to hold back a giggle before he pulls out two pretty much unused but awesome champagne flutes from a cabinet, and waggles them showily. 

“Very classy,” Jonny says, then he pops open the cider with the bottle opener on his keyring, and slides the bottle towards Patrick. 

Patrick pours them a glass each. He’s smiling, sheepish, as he hands Jonny his before walking into the living room. 

“I’m not, like, a Wolfsbane addict, you know,” he says over his shoulder. 

“I didn’t think you were,” Jonny says carefully. “I just think...you scared me, alright? I know Shaw told you. You know I’ve been stewing for weeks.” 

"But we're good now?” Patrick sits down on the couch they both inexplicably managed to buy. 

“No," Jonny says, coming to sit beside him, his expression grave. "We are not good." 

"Seriously, Tazer? It's been weeks. I'm _fine_."

"In large enough doses, Wolfsbane can kill you. Did you know that? I had to count the empty vials after you passed out on me. I—"

Patrick’s eyebrows draw together incredulously. “ _That’s_ why you’ve been so upset with me?”

“Jesus, of course that’s why. I thought you were trying to, I don’t know...” Jonny gestures helplessly with his glass of cider, his shoulders tense.

“What?” 

“ _Die_ , Pat. I thought you were overdosing.”

“What? Bro, _Jonny_ , I would never.“

“You told me you didn’t want to be a werewolf anymore. You said that.” 

“Did I?” Patrick's voice is small. “Oh… well, you know me, always going overboard."

Jonny puts his glass down on the carpet and takes hold of Patrick's shoulders. He shakes Patrick gently, a fierce twist to his mouth. 

“Not anymore," he says. "If you go overboard I’m diving in after you. So.” 

“So you're an idiot.” Patrick laughs. He giddily imagines himself in Rose’s place on the Titanic’s stern, toeing off his shoes while Jonny threatens to jump in after him. And he knows with heart-aching clarity that Jonny would; Jonny would follow his ass right into the freezing Atlantic without a backwards glance, and knowing Jonny, he would find a way to get them both back on the ship, too. It’s so much all at once, the moon and Jonny’s forthrightness. Patrick laughs a little harder, his shoulders shaking, which just makes Jonny grip him tighter. Score. 

“You’re fucking stuck with me, Kaner,” he says, dark eyes glinting. “And you know it."

Patrick grins hugely, and feels his fangs shift against his bottom lip. He runs his teeth over them self-consciously and says, "I know it.” 

He really does. 

"Good. Now we're good." Jonny shifts his hand to the back of Patrick's neck and squeezes, fingers tight in his curls.

" _Jonny_ ," Patrick says, a little uneasy. God, he missed this, and having Jonny’s hands on him again fills Patrick with undefinable want, scary in its intensity. But he has to be soft, be cautious. Keep a hold on himself. Patrick would be miserable if he scared Jonny away now. "You don't wanna...."

"Shut up, ok? Just shut up for a second. I…I gotta tell you. I love all of it, alright? The wolf stuff. The _you_ stuff. I'm so fucking into it, you don't even wanna know."

"Yeah I do," Patrick says around his fangs, relief rushing through him, making him blush. "Tell me. I won't bite."  

Jonny visibly shivers, and he tugs just lightly at Patrick's hair. "Please do.”

Patrick's mouth drops open. "Do you still...even when I'm—"

"Especially then," Jonny says, eyes downcast. When he looks up his cheeks are splotchy red, and Patrick can smell his embarrassed arousal. "The first time I saw you, during the moon? I wanted—well, you know what I wanted." 

"Mom told me to stay away from freaks like you," Patrick tries to tease, but it falls flat. He's a lot more into this than he thought he'd be.

Jonny scoots in closer to him, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Patrick's head, a big, comforting pressure, and he tips their foreheads together. 

"I mean it, you jerk. It's nice. You're a nice wolf," Jonny says, his mouth very close to Patricks.  

" _Jesus_ ," Patrick mutters, "just fuck me up why don't you." 

"What?" 

"I wanna. I wanna try something. Don't rip my head off, ok?" 

Jonny snorts. 

Patrick lifts his hands to Jonny’s face, careful of his tiny claws on Jonny’s bare, soft skin, and tilts his head to the side. 

“Ok?” Patrick whispers.

“ _Fuck yeah._ ” 

Jonny sounds completely wrecked already.  His raspy voice and the feel of his breath on Patrick’s lips sends a chill through Patrick so intense he squirms. Jonny smirks, so Patrick kisses him, fangs out and all. 

And  _God,_ he'd never considered what it would be like to kiss someone during his moon. He didn't trust himself, couldn't trust himself, but knowing that _Jonny_ trusts him is enough to crush his doubts. Jonny, the most sensible person he knows, wants this, with him, even when he’s a _wolf_ , and Jonny is also making their first kiss completely filthy. Patrick’s thought about this a lot; and he never expected Jonny to be the one teasing Patrick’s lips open with his tongue, skittering over the sharp points of his fangs with the tip of it, exploring the edges of Patrick’s mouth, completely fearless. Well, he supposes he should have expected the fearless part.

Patrick has his eyes closed, but he can tell the full moon is quickly approaching by the quickening rhythm of his heart. It’s not like the last time Jonny kissed him, with the moon already high. The shock of it had sent Patrick spinning helplessly out of control into full-on bloodlust. This, the way Jonny sucks lightly on his lower lip, and strokes his hair, feels like an easing in. Jonny smells comfortable, but there’s a darker, headier scent beneath his calm; it curls into Patrick’s nostrils, an unspoken invitation for Patrick to take more. Patrick pulls away to look at him. Jonny’s eyes are completely pupil, and his intent expression isn’t all that different from his murderous one. 

“Hi,” Patrick says. 

“What’s wrong?” Jonny’s forehead creases up dramatically. 

“It’s getting late, things are going to…Get a little wolfier pretty soon.” 

“That’s cool.” 

“Alright, bro.” Patrick shrugs. “Your… _not_ funeral, but like.” 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to call me bro after we’ve been making out,” Jonny says.

“I think I can call you whatever I want,” Patrick counters. Because Jonny is ridiculous and also Patrick’s bro, maybe now more than ever. “Plus,” he adds, “there are about 1,000 bro puns that we’ll miss out on if I can’t.” 

“God, you’re annoying.”

“Brosé? Brotein shake? Bro-job?” Patrick winks. 

“Your ears!” Jonny says, suddenly, which is not the reaction Patrick was looking for. Then Jonny reaches over and strokes through Patrick’s soft fur. “I missed them.” 

“I missed this,” Patrick says, leaning into Jonny’s touch, and just like that, the levity is gone from the room, and all of the desire Patrick has been alternately holding back, ignoring, or wallowing in is back and zinging straight through him. He’s about to lunge forward and get back to kissing when Jonny says, “we should eat something, before. You know.” 

“I don’t know.” 

Jonny gestures between them like _duh_ , so Patrick plays dumb. 

“We should eat something before things go too far and we forget, and then you pass out and I’m stuck with a cute, unconscious werewolf. And, um, blueballs.” 

“Wow,” Patrick says, eyes bugging, “we are not doing anything about your balls when I’m like this. But.” He grins. “I appreciate the come on.” 

“Up, food, now.”

Patrick grabs their champagne flutes for a refill and putters around in the kitchen while Jonny sits at the counter and watches him with the smallest, kindest smile. Patrick’s seen that look before, he just didn’t know what it meant until now. 

“I got steak again for me tonight,” he says, pulling the platter of raw rib eyes out from the fridge. “But I got you something too.” He opens the oven where he’s been holding the special dinner he had delivered for Jonny (which came with strict reheating instructions) and places it on the counter with a flourish. “Steak dinner for two. And um, I also got your beer. The kind you like. The Founders one? I don’t mind if you drink. Most nights I drink enough for both of us, so.” 

“Peeks,” Jonny says. “This is. Shit. You’re so. C’mere.” He turns away from the counter and holds out his arms. Patrick goes to him, lets Jonny wrap him up, his face pressed into Patrick’s curls. Patrick can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. “Have I told you, lately, what a good boy you are?” Jonny says, all muffled. 

And Patrick bites his lower lip, and whines. 

“So good,” Jonny continues. “Such a good boy.” 

“We should eat,” Patrick forces out, trying to keep himself from literally rutting against Jonny’s thigh. “Because.” 

“Yeah.” 

They end up back in the living room, curled up in Patrick’s blankets; Jonny with his back to the couch, and Patrick sprawled out between his legs. Jonny’s chest is flush to his back, and Patrick's head is tilted back on Jonny’s shoulder, while Jonny strokes up and down his bare arms, through the thicker hair on his forearms and biceps. Patrick feels full, and lazy, and content to ignore _The Fifth Element_ which Jonny chose to watch, and just accept the warmth at his back and the hands on his skin. Jonny’s lips are just below his ear, and he’s been talking, nonsense mostly, but the praise feels more meaningful now, it leaves Patrick with tendrils of arousal tugging at his middle, he keeps shivering when Jonny’s lips graze his skin. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to do any pants off stuff?” Jonny asks, very unfairly sliding his hands slowly down Patrick’s thighs, hot through his thin, soft yoga pants. 

Patrick is sure because he’s pretty much at the height of the change now, and he wants to be all there when he gets Jonny’s pants off, even though Jonny is proving to be easy for it right now. 

“I wanna touch you,” Jonny says, hands curving around Patrick’s thighs, fingers tucked between his legs and the blankets, his thumbs stroking closer and closer to Patrick's hard-on. "Kiss you all over. See all of you—when you're like this, whenever."

“Oh my god,” Patrick says. “You’re killing me.” 

“That’s the point.” Jonny blows on one of his ears and Patrick makes a gut-punched sound from somewhere deep in his chest. “It doesn’t have to be tonight.” Jonny circles his hips behind Patrick, the jut of his erection fully apparent, and caresses Patrick's belly, fitting them closer together. “But soon.” 

Patrick huffs, and then he’s flipping himself around and pouncing on Jonny. He wraps his legs around Jonny’s waist, and burrows into Jonny’s neck, noses behind his ear. Jonny groans, completely guttural and ruined, and Patrick licks up the side of his neck and breathes him in, the salt on his skin lighting up Patrick’s extra sensitive tastebuds. Once he starts, he can’t stop himself from licking Jonny’s ears, his Adam’s apple, dragging his tongue over the stubble on Jonny’s cheeks. He tries to be as careful as possible not to nip or catch any skin with his fangs, but each time he does, Jonny grunts, like he's hot for it. 

Jonny gets his hands up under Patrick’s shirt, one at the small of his back, the other between Patrick’s shoulder blades, and then he’s got Patrick on his back somehow, with Jonny above him, their thighs slotted together. 

“Kiss me,” Patrick whines. His vision is just a little blurry. He feels wild, out of control in the best possible way, pleased about the heightened senses the moon gives him, and so prepared to let Jonny maul _him_ , because frankly, Jonny is more a lot dangerous than he is. Patrick can tell.  

“I got you,” Jonny says, bringing their mouths back together in a crushing kiss, deep and wet. 

 _This_ , Patrick thinks, as he manages to find just the right amount of pressure against his dick to feel relieved _and_ make Jonny moan, is his best moon ever, and he would really never tell his mom that.  

The next day Jonny convinces him to hold a press conference in the coming weeks. Their legs are intertwined and Jonny is only wearing boxers; he's looking at Patrick like his happiness is the most important thing in the world, so really he has an unfair advantage. Especially considering how sensitive and raw Patrick always feels after he transforms back into regular Patrick. 

"Your parents will be so proud," Jonny says (again, unfair advantage), his lips nearly brushing against one of Patrick's nipples. "And it'll be good for the NLHL. You’ll see.”

"Who cares about the NLHL?"

"You should,” Jonny scolds him lightly. “You can be you and do the thing and everyone can know. No one will judge you; you've been through enough to know that only petty jerks will hold this secret against you." 

"Isn't tacit admittance enough?" Patrick grumbles.

"Not for kids who got turned early like you did and are worried about lacing up their skates now." Jonny sucks that very close nipple into his mouth and nibbles at it. 

Jonny does not play fair _at all._  

"What's in it for _me_?" 

"My deep and abiding devotion," Jonny says, grinning because he knows he's won and Jonny loves to win.

Patrick rolls his eyes as hard as he can. "Can't argue with that, I guess."

"And when the season is over, I'll haul your ass to Winnipeg and we can hide out in the woods while you wolf-out all day. As long as I get to touch your ears whenever I want." He jabs Patrick lightly in the stomach. 

"Joy," says Patrick, but every bit of him is thrilled at the prospect. 

In the end, Jonny sets the whole thing up for him which is pretty great. They use Brisson's office and the Blackhawks PR department and Patrick even takes some new photos where he's partially wolfed-out in his hockey gear, proudly displaying the Blackhawks emblem across his chest, claws gripping his hockey stick. Having his ears trapped in by his helmet isn't the best, but he feels free, weirdly relieved, when he's got his whole kit on and can be _completely_ himself.  

Doesn’t stop him from being all nerves the day of the presser, but he has a new suit and probably a boyfriend so it could be worse. 

"Are you sure you don’t want to come out there with me? Tell them about us?" he says to Jonny before walking out behind the stand. Patrick can hear Shawzy cheering enthusiastically somewhere out on the floor and Sharpy keeps hushing him, equally loud. 

"One thing at a time, Peeks. One thing at a time." Jonny pats him sportsmanlike on the butt. And then he sends Patrick out into the room and before the cameras. 

Patrick blinks a few times against the bright lights, and takes a deep breath. He glances to his left at Jonny, and Jonny gives him a monumentally embarrassing two-handed thumbs up. Patrick settles, slipping his hands into his pockets and rolling back on the balls of his feet. He lets his fangs drop before throwing Jonny a big grin and an exaggerated wink; then, still smiling, he turns to face the press head-on. 

“Showtime.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, you should probably watch [Dirty Paws](https://vimeo.com/127551931) which is ADORABLE (but, fair warning, does include the death of a pet). You can also follow me on [tumblr](http://reserve.tumblr.com).


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